


Edges of Heaven

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Because adulthood kind of sucks sometimes, Bittersweet, Domestic, Future Fic, Light Bondage, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Top!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is all nice and pretty and simple when you’re mapping it out on some loose leaf in Chemistry. But now Stiles is twenty-eight and he knows better. And this isn't where he expected to find himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edges of Heaven

When Stiles thought about being in his twenties, being an adult— and _fantasized_ might be a better word, actually—he always imagined his life being perfect, you know? He’d have some cool, chill job doing some cool, chill thing, and when he wasn’t off at the cool, chill place he worked, he’d have this cool, chill apartment in some cool, chill neighborhood that showed off what he a cool, chill person he was to the ladies. Not that he’d bat an eyelash at any of the pretty faces pressed his way, because he’d have Lydia Martin on his arm and, hopefully at that point, her named be Stilinski.

And, the werewolf stuff? It’d still be there, he guessed, but in a cool Monster-of-the-Week Buffy sort of way. He’d be this cool, chill guy with a cool, chill life and a pretty cool, chill secret.

Life is all nice and pretty and simple when you’re mapping it out on some loose leaf in Chemistry.

Now Stiles is twenty-eight and, needless to say, nothing in his life is like his scribbles in between formulas and doodles. First thing’s first, there’s no Lydia and there never will be a Lydia no matter what twenty-year plan he might have plotted when he was sixteen. And, actually, he’s alright with that. It’s better this way—right this way—and it only took him five years to figure out. They’re . . . friends, though, friends that keep in touch and have lunch and complain about bills and television and shitty coffee together and that’s better than anything he could have hoped for.

So, there’s a Lydia, but not a Lydia, you know? That said, there’s also no pretty girls fighting to press their faces against the window of his car which saves him carwash expenses, he guesses. And he wouldn’t consider IT work for a high school in the area of, oh, the college was still attending. Out of everything imagined, though, his apartment is at least kind of cool and chill. The neighborhood’s nice enough, save for the occasional loud, drunken stoop party under his window some nights and the sound of stampeding child above. It feels like a bachelor pad, his own little lair, and that’s nice.

And above all, the werewolf shit tide has calmed down a helluva lot. In fact, besides Scott who will always, always be his best friend and always, always have a place on his couch after movie nights and gaming marathons, werewolf shit mostly comes in the form of Jackson Whittemore very much like he is now: naked and tied up to Stiles’ bed with belts and whatever Stiles could knot together, a joint dangling from his teeth, begging to be lit.

Yeah. Stiles didn’t see this coming when he was sixteen.

Jackson wriggles his fingers more out of irritation than, you know, any intent on being released. “Come on, Stilinski,” he grumbles, muffled by the joint waving between his lips. “Come on, I’ve been waiting all fucking week. _Come on_.”

Laughter bubbles in Stiles’ throat at the desperation in Jackson’s voice, but he swallows it in favor of taking a deep drag from his own recently-lit joint. Because he likes watching Jackson squirm and he’s just a shit like that.

“You can wait,” he rasps, exhaling from his nostrils.

“I fucking can’t.”

“You can.”

“I _can’t_.”

Stiles isn’t sure what they’re talking about anymore. It could be the joint, but then it could be Jackson’s cock, too, hard and pink and pretty.

It’s probably his cock. Because it’s leaking, a sticky strand of precum connecting his slit to the small puddle on his stomach and, good golly Miss Molly, is Stiles tempted too fucking lap that shit up and spit it right back out into Jackson’s mouth. But that would probably go against the whole waiting game he’s setting up.

“You can,” Stiles says again as he walks towards the bed. When he hits the edge of the mattress, Jackson’s knees kick up, his legs spread, and it’s like Christmas morning two hundred days early. Jackson always shows up prepared and tonight’s no different; his crack’s lined with fine, dark hairs and pink where it isn’t, and his hole’s sweet and wet and glistening in the shitty yellow glow from Stiles’ ceiling light. “You’re eager tonight.”

“Don’t change the fucking subject.”

Stiles takes a quick puff before he pulls his joint away so he can lick a sloppy but mostly dry path up Jackson’s treasure trail, through slick spots of precum. The way Jackson’s stomach quivers is delicious. “And you’re so fucking wet.”

“Stilinski.”

“So fucking wet, baby,” Stiles says, aching to suck a hickey under one of Jackson’s ribs. “So fucking sweet.”

Jackson huffs a laugh, drops his head back into the pillow, throat long and beautiful and, shit, maybe he should suckle a bit there instead until the skin’s so dark it never, ever goes pale again. “Fucking-A, you weird ass fucker.”

No, Stiles is just a bit transfixed by the way Jackson’s stomach muscles moves when he breathes, everything else nice, warm, soft, and hazy. He lips around Jackson’s navel and Jackson’s sticky cock bumps his chin which somehow is twenty kinds of hilarious.

“Come on, come on! Fucking do it already.”

“Tell me what you want, Jackson. Come on, I might give it to ya.”

“Want you.”

“Yeah?”

“Want your cock.”

“Oh yeah.”

“My wrists fucking hurt.”

Stiles pauses, eyes flicking up to Jackson’s, then he snorts a laugh into Jackson’s stomach. “The belt’s not cutting it?”

“Cutting off my circulation, maybe.”

Stiles laughs harder, the sound raspy and strange. He finds himself lying over Jackson, suddenly lazy and careless, and when Jackson glares up at the joint that still dangles in his fingers, Stiles decides to take pity on him.

“We’re kind of fucked up, aren’t we?” he breathes into Jackson’s throat after a moment.

Jackson exhales pungent, skunk-y smoke, lashes fluttering as Stiles plucks the joint away. “Everything’s fucked up.”

Stiles takes another hit. “Everything’s been fucked up for a while, I think.”

“Mm.”

They smoke down the joint together until it practically crumbles in Stiles’ fingers as he sucks at the butt of it for all its worth and everything is hot and sweaty and dank-smelling and almost eerily domestic as they lay together, dicks still hard, but in a relaxed, comfortable way. Stiles actually forgot he was hard for a moment, too lost in a quiet bliss, until Jackson sucks in a breath and his stomach rolls so pleasantly under Stiles, Stiles has to shift and stare and accidentally slide his cock along where Jackson’s pelvis meets his leg.

“Fucking Christ, man,” he whispers reverently, pushing himself up so he can really see Jackson.

Jackson’s eyes are closed, his face soft and peaceful. There’s a thin layer of sweat across his skin, slim drips of it rolling down his neck to pool at his collarbone, but that damned, cheap light above them makes him look more sickly than angelic and that’s just a fucking injustice to the world. Because reality just has to invade and fuck up his little fantasy world.

“Fucking Christ,” Stiles says again like it means something. “Fucking, fucking Christ.”

There’s a chuckle, Jackson chuckles, and cracks an eye. “Okay.”

In the back of his mind, Stiles knows it doesn’t really make sense, but it feels kind of right, you know? That lazy almost slurred drawl just feels right to Stiles’ gut and so does positioning himself between Jackson’s legs like he was supposed to ten minutes or hours or days ago.

It takes him an extra second to—to align things right, but once he does and once he _pushes_ , everything just clicks. Jackson opens up for him with this sweet, breathy sigh Stiles wants to inhale and take for his very own, but realizing he can’t, it’s too late, he settles for just pushing and pushing, sinking deeper and deeper and deeper until Jackson throws his head back and that sweet sigh turns into an even sweeter moan.

“ _Fuuuck_. Fuck, Stilinski, yeah.”

Stiles can’t answer beyond broken grunts before he’s almost there, almost fully seated. He has to grab Jackson’s hips at some point to drag him further in his lap and further on his dick and before he can think of it, Jackson’s pulling the pillow from under his head and shoving it under his tailbone. The angle, the heat, the feel is perfect, everything’s perfect, and they both take a moment to just take it all in.

“Sweet Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s—Yeah, that’s—Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles is actually okay with just this—no need to move, really, Jackson squeezes him just right as is—but then Jackson clenches and reminds him of something better and snarls, “Come the fuck on, already,” and puts Stiles to work.

With a breathless laugh-like thing, Stiles clutches Jackson’s hips tighter and begins a nice, slow grind that has Jackson wriggling his fingers in the empty air. Somehow sex feels better like this, when he’s high off his ass and more tired than not. He appreciates his nerve endings more, he guesses, because they’re singing something holy under his skin so that he can just make out every fucking ridge of Jackson’s insides as his dick eases its way in and out, back and forth.

“Can you feel that?” Stiles pants into Jackson’s chin and when did he get there? “Shit, can you fucking feel that?”

When Jackson just stares up at the ceiling and doesn’t answer right away, Stiles snaps his hips forward once, twice, until Jackson grunts, “ _Yeah_.”

“Yeah,” Stiles echoes as he grinds hard into Jackson, trying hard to push the boundaries of _deep_ and where he ends and Jackson begins and some shit like that. Because that’s how sex is supposed to be like, right? Like you’re one with someone. Like you’re eternally bonded to someone with no sense or hope or seam along the edges so you can peel apart. Stiles doesn’t realize he’d upped the pace until the slap of skin on skin is almost as palpable as the tickling thought of crawling inside Jackson and fucking colonizing him from the inside out.

Jackson takes it all with the dead grace of grunts and gasps and his eyes rolled heavenward and beyond.

Stiles doesn’t seem to know how to thrust anymore. He lets his hips do what they want to do instead, humping and bucking and jerking, while he tries to keep ahold of Jackson sweat-slicked hips. At some point, this stopped being sex and turned into two wasted, sweaty husks of muscle and flesh rutting mindlessly from something divine to downright carnal and gross and hotter and better than anything else Stiles has done this last year, between dealing with dumbass parents and teenagers who can’t remember a simple six-digit password and the old woman next door who sniffs disdainfully at him though she’s the one who smells of cat piss and going to fucking lunches with fucking Lydia fucking Martin just so he can be reminded of everything he’s ever fucked up ever.

Everything is _so_ fucked up.

Just like that, Stiles comes with a sob and the taste of salt and copper on his tongue. Those precious nerve endings explode in dazzling colors behind his tightly shut eyes and the only coherent thought that passes through his brain as his hips stutter is that he hopes he fucking comes a lot, fucking stains Jackson in a way that says Stiles Stilinski was here to Lydia and Derek and Isaac and Scott and Allison and the Whittemores and his dad and the whole fucking world and whoever else Jackson could be fucking when he isn’t here Thursday nights, tied to Stiles’ bed.

Orgasms last longer like this, it seems, so when Stiles comes to he still twitches and spasms with aftershocks and still has a mouthful of Jackson’s shoulder between his teeth, Jackson doing his best to grind down on him with a, “Stiles—shit—don’t stop.”

“Mm, sorry, shit,” Stiles mumbles. His eyes are heavy and refuse to open. “Too late for that, man.”

Jackson bucks under him, whines. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

Stiles consoles him with a blind pat—more of a slap, really—to his stomach. “No here, man, let me—” After he pries his eyes open with considerable effort, he pushes himself further by sitting up and slowly easing out of Jackson. Stiles whistles at the white globs of come that follow his cock. “Whoo, shit. Look at that.”

“Fuck,” Jackson continues to whimper, lower. “Fuck, please. Please—”

“Shh, I hear you, I hear you.” Stiles crawls backwards until he teeters on the edge of the bed and hunches over Jackson. He drags a thumb over the red, used hole and smiles when it twitches at his touch, when Jackson whispers, “ _Stiles_ ,” like a prayer.

The keen that leaves Jackson when Stiles first licks a stripe up Jackson’s hole is what dreams are made of.

It isn’t long before Stiles is lapping up every trace of seed he can reach, sucking everything nice and tidy, and Jackson is grinding against his face. This is Jackson at his best, Stiles thinks, when his cock’s full to bursting and he’s muttering a broken mantra of _come_ and _please_ and _let me_ and _Stiles_. This is when Stiles feels his best, this single moment when he reaches the eye of his shitstorm of a life where he’s a god of his own domain, the body tensed and twisted up under him. A place where things happen just as he should.

Like Stiles hissing, “Come,” and Jackson doing so by sheer force of will.

Jackson’s hands curl into fists and his legs draw in and up and his toes curl and he comes so beautifully with a simple, “Oh,” after that first spurt. He comes in thick strands that paint his chest with purposefully jerks from his cock until the last of his orgasm pools into his navel in slimy drips. Stiles tentatively turns Jackson’s cock away with a finger so he can lap Jackson’s bellybutton clean, and then the rest of his stomach and chest as well.

Jackson’s arms just sort of flop when Stiles undo the shitty bindings and they slosh around when Jackson shifts over to give Stiles enough room to curl beside him.

They breathe.

“You have to think of a better way to do this. My hands are going to just fucking fall off at some point.”

“ _I_ have to think of it?”

“Yeah, _you_ do.”

“. . . Mm, yeah, okay, yeah. I was thinking of getting a pipe, too, by the way.”

“A bong?”

“No, like an actual pipe thing. Like a fucking bowl, you know?”

“Oh. Hunh. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles turns his head towards Jackson and, as if sensing his gaze, Jackson looks at him, too. They never really do it that often, but Stiles wants to kiss Jackson, wants to do something with those pretty pink parted lips before someone else decides to. Who, he can’t be sure; he doesn’t have the sense of smell Jackson does to tell who he fucks when he’s not here. Instead he curls an arm under Jackson’s neck and Jackson rolls closer, lays his head on Stiles’ chest.

Tomorrow, Stiles is going to wake up at four and flick the news on like always. Jackson’s still going to be there after he showers and brushes his teeth and dresses. He’ll make and eat breakfast for himself, but leave the eggs and frying pan out before he takes a final, wistful glance at Jackson drooling on his pillow and drives to work with all the windows open, hoping and praying the smell of skunk doesn’t follow him. And when he comes back home at two, Jackson’ll be long gone, but there’ll still be traces of him in the cold coffee left in the pot on the counter and the open cap of his conditioner and the wee bit of weed missing from his stash.

And while that’s nothing like what he scratched into his lab notes besides a detailed sketch of the back of Lydia Martin’s head, it kind of feels like the only thing he’s done right in twenty-eight years.


End file.
